


A Question

by olivemartini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, s2e03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9310526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: When Sherlock told John to hold his hand, it was a command, not a question.





	

It was a command, not a question, when Sherlock told John to hold his hand.

He always thought it would be a question, one asked with hesitance and in silence, using the words of the language that only he and John seem able to be understand.  He's not sure when he would be asking it, maybe when they sit across from each other at Angelo's, not talking because it had been a difficult case, and Sherlock would suddenly find his hand covering John's.  Or maybe they would be sitting beside each other on the couch, or walking down the street, or passing each other in the hallway, and Sherlock just wouldn't be able to take it anymore, find himself unable to go one more second without knowing what it would feel like to finally feel his hand grab onto John's, even if only for a second, even if John would rip his arm away as soon as they made contact, at least he would know, at least he would be able to remember the feel of skin on skin and fingers intertwining with each other and the way John's breath caught in surprise when Sherlock first made contact, and he would store it in the biggest room his mind palace has to offer and revisit it daily, never able to forget a single detail about that moment. 

And he also knew, that from this silent question would come the unspoken answer.  Sherlock had been alone for much of his life - _Alone is what I am.  Alone keeps me safe-_ and then John showed up one day with his limp and his nightmares and his ability to be a rather extraordinary kind of normal, and Sherlock found that his heart, which people had told him all his life was broken or dead or nonexistent, has a capacity for caring that surprised even him.  Sometimes, as they gravitate around each other, both of them trapped in the other's orbits and unable to come closer or break away entirely, he thinks about how easily it would be to finally draw attention to what they both knew was there- with words, with a kiss, with a hand reaching out to John- but the consequences rise up in his brain, images of John pulling away, of rejection, of losing the best friend he ever had, and Sherlock finds himself repeating his old mantra over and over, like a band aid to keep still healing wounds from breaking open, _alone is what I am, alone keeps me safe_.  Only he finds that hard to believe now, because John has broken down the walls and peeled away the barbed wire protection and seen through the mirage that had seemed to fool everyone else.  Sherlock knows, without a doubt, that the moment he took a chance the uncertainty would rise in his chest and his heart would crawl into his throat and his stomach would twist, because he is scared, so scared of what these feelings mean, but then John would look at him and smile and grip onto his hand even tighter, and it would be okay, because somehow, being with John made everything okay.

Except now there is Moriarty, and police, and a gun pointed at John's head because in a strange turn of events that is the only way to protect him, and he can see out of the corner of his eye the man with the blood still streaming from his nose, and he finally understands why John was always so bothered by what people say about him.  There are no questions, not anymore, just an answer so clear it might as well have been neon letters shining in the darkness, and he does not have room for uncertainty anymore, just emotion and action and _knowing._ He thinks back on all those lost chances, the nights they spent in the flat and the words they never said to each other and the truths they would never show, all of it lost by a lie of omission, and Sherlock can not help but think that for once in his life, he, who up until then he had thought the smartest man in the world, had been incredibly stupid.

So they are holding hands now, out of necessity, and Sherlock is able to focus on everything at once- the cold air in his lungs, John's fingers slipping out of his and returning a second later, the wailing of the sirens and the eerie glow of the streetlights, the feeling of skin against skin, a pulse pounding in the palm of John's hand, Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty and the fraudulent detective who lost, and John, the John whose hand he finally got to hold, even though it was too late, and even though it was wrong, all wrong, it was still so, so right. He holds his hand, not because it is needed or particularly helpful in any way, but because he finally knows that that is what he is meant to do and that he is quickly running out of chances to do so.  Tonight was a glimpse of something that he would never get to know.

After all the unintended lies, the simple truth is this:  Tonight, he is not the world's greatest detective, he is only an ordinary man brought to his knees by the world's only consulting criminal, trying to memorize what it feels like to have John's hand in his.  Because soon, he will lose everything, and before he does, before Moriarty wins once and for all, he wants to remember what it feels like to have done something right.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @alwaysscripturient


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